


crashing low

by canticle



Series: Pegoryu Week 2018 [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers, after the 7th palace, that's a good tag :3c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: “Don’t you dareeverdie on me, Ryuji.”





	crashing low

**Author's Note:**

> _Wings wouldn't help you_  
>  _Wings wouldn't help you down_  
>  _Down towards the ground, gravity's proud._  
>  - _roslyn,_ bon iver

He comes back to himself slowly and in pieces; a hand, a leg, a throbbing headache, a collection of scrapes across his arm and back. There’s salt in his mouth and grass in his hair and he feels like he’s just been thrown across a football field.

Considering that he’d been prepared to die, though, he feels pretty damn good.

But....did the others make it?

That thought, the thought of his friends, of  _ Akira _ losing themselves in the collapsing palace, drowning in the waves under their lifeboat, is what drives him from his uncomfortable sprawl up to his feet. Ryuji is  _ so uncomfortably sore, _ but he’s also within earshot of several too-loud voices, all of them distressed.

He moves a little faster when he catches sight of tense shoulders and a mop of tousled black hair, but it’s Ann who sees him first, who alerts the others with a wordless shriek. Ryuji only has a split second to see that she’s in tears, to wonder, horrified,  _ Who did we lose? _ before her arms are around him like a vice grip and she’s wailing into his neck.

An instant later he’s hit by Futaba from the side and staggers with a grunt, but that doesn’t deter her at all; she’s just as latched on as Ann is, although her tears are quieter. Makoto and Haru approach him together— shit, they’re  _ all _ crying, Haru openly, Makoto doing her best to keep herself together but wiping at her eyes every few seconds. “What,” he says hoarsely, starting to panic, his hands patting gently at Ann and Futaba’s shoulders, “what happened? Did we lose someone?”

“We almost lost _you,_ you idiot!” Ann shrieks into his neck. “You suicidal _maniac!_ Don’t you ever— _ever—_ you’re so _stupid,_ I can’t _believe—_ ”

_ Oh. _

“Nice to know you care,” he says, and it  _ is, _ it fills him with warmth that banishes his exhaustion, even when Futaba viciously pinches him beneath his ribs, even when Haru and Makoto fold him into their arms as well. He sees Yusuke discreetly swipe a hand across his eyes, and Akira—

Akira’s staring at him with a look he’s never seen before.

Ryuji tilts his head invitingly with a smile, says “C’mon, man, plenty of room for two more,” but nothing changes. His expression is as blank and unreadable as a still, dark pond. It makes Ryuji falter, even after Ann finally lets him go with one last open-palmed smack to his shoulder, even as Futaba dries her tears on the arm of his hoodie (gross) and Makoto and Haru let him go. Yusuke presses a brief hand to his shoulder as if reassuring himself that he’s still there, that he really came back, but at this point he only has eyes for Akira.

Akira, who’s standing stiff and stock-still. Akira, who’s shaking like a leaf, whose hands are clenched into fists hard enough that his knuckles stand out stark white against his skin. “Akira,” he says; behind him there’s hurried whispers and sudden, fading footsteps as the rest of the group draws back. “I—”

“No,” Akira says, and it brings Ryuji up short. Akira’s  _ never _ spoken to him like that, never looked at him icy-eyed and blank, never been cold as a winter wind and twice as unforgiving. 

Akira’s never turned his back on him and all but  _ fled.  _

It leaves him reeling, leaves him feeling unmoored, unattached, drifting uncomfortably. Akira’s always been a strong and steady anchor; hell, Ryuji hadn’t thought  _ anything _ would phase him at this point. He doesn’t know how to react, he feels stunned and lost.

Someone’s hand creeps into his own; someone’s hand rests on his shoulder. Someone presses up against his ankles, though Ryuji doesn’t look down to preserve the illusion that it’s  _ not  _ Mona. “C’mon,” Ann says thickly, still sniffling. “Let’s go get cleaned up. We’re going to go get dinner.”

He didn’t think he’d scare them this badly, leave all his friends white as sheets, and abruptly Ryuji is guiltier than he’s ever been in his entire life. “Shit, guys,” he says, grabbing at sleeves, at hands, pulling them all back towards him roughly one after the other, because now that the adrenaline’s wearing thin the shakes are settling in. “Holy  _ shit, _ I’m sorry—”

“No,” Makoto shakes her head, “don’t be, but  _ please _ don’t  _ ever _ try and sacrifice yourself for us again like that!”

“I thought you were  _ dead, _ ” Ann hiccups, and Ryuji thinks back to Akira’s milk-white face, his trembling shoulders, his clenched fists. “I— if you were gone— “

“I’m not,” he says, then a little more firmly. “I’m not gone. I’m right here.”

 

When he texts Akira later that night, full of gyudon and the last bits of jittery energy crackling up and down his spine, he doesn’t get an answer. The notification stays on ‘unread’ until his eyes fall shut of their own volition.

 

He’s never fought with Akira before, so it takes him nearly a full day to realize that that’s what it is. Ryuji’s experiences of fights have always been hot things— loud voices, words thrown like knives, raised fists, his father advancing on him like an oncoming train, unable to be escaped— which makes Akira’s cold silence doubly hard to recognize.

But after a full night and day of silence— almost 24 hours of increasingly worried texts on his end, and absolute radio silence from Akira’s— he realizes something’s wrong.

“He’s been really quiet to me too,” Ann says when he calls her, pacing around the confines of his living room like a caged tiger. “I think he’s maybe given me one text back today? Maybe he’s just tired.” They both know that’s not true; Akira might barely ever text back, but he’s always in contact at least a few times in a day. It’s in his nature to check in with light touches and fleeting glances before moving on to secure the next person.

It leaves Ryuji feeling uncomfortably high and dry.

“Y’think it had something to do with, uh, last night?” Ryuji asks, tongue a little thick in his mouth as the leftover adrenaline zings down his spine again. God, he’d almost  _ died. _ He’d do it again, too, if the stakes were that high.

Ann makes an uncertain noise. “Futaba might know; I know she was over there a bunch last night, she texted me pictures of Akira with his hair all pinned back. He looked like grumpy cat.”

“I wanna see,” Ryuji whines. “That’s not fair!”

But when he calls Futaba, she doesn’t answer.

He stews for another hour or so, tries and fails not to text Akira back another few times, tries and fails not to feel dismayed when there’s no answer again, and eventually drags on his jacket and hightails it over to Leblanc.

He’s going to be pushing it if he wants to make it onto the last train home, but he’ll walk back if he has to. This is important. There’s somethin’ up with Akira and it wouldn’t be right of him to leave it alone.

When he gets to Leblanc the lights are off and the sign is turned to ‘Closed’. That’s not nearly enough to stop him. He texts Akira once, then again; when there’s still no answer he starts throwing pebbles at Akira’s window.

It works, but not in the way he was hoping for; the bottom panel shimmies open the slightest bit and Morgana sticks his head out, hissing. “What are you even doing, you hopeless monkey, trying to break the window?”

“Is Akira okay?” Ryuji demands, not in the mood to play cat-and-mouse insult games with an actual cat.

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“He hasn’t answered any of my texts. If he’s hurt—”

“If he’s hurt,” Morgana says, and Ryuji can see his tail lashing even through the windowpane, “then it’s because  _ you _ hurt him. Now go away, he’s asleep and he’s going to  _ stay _ that way.” 

The window swings shut with a quiet thunk, leaving Ryuji with nothing to do but go home empty handed.

 

Thing is, he doesn’t  _ understand _ .

He scours his memory of the days before, trying to pinpoint what he’d have said to make Akira shut him out like this and finds nothing. He goes back through their text history— a bunch of jokes, movie plans, a saucy text followed by a winky face— and finds nothing. He doesn’t  _ get _ it— if he’s angry, why isn’t he yelling? Ryuji knows how to deal with yelling, knows how to bow his head and ride out the storm, knows how to murmur platitudes until the rage has passed and then get to the heart of the matter— but that’s not what Akira is doing. The script is all wrong. It leaves him off balance, wrong-footed. He doesn’t know what to do.

Was he inconsiderate somehow? They haven’t been dating long, but Ryuji hadn’t thought he’d been pushy, or overbearing— he doesn’t  _ understand _ , does he need to bring flowers and chocolate and cards? Does he need to get down on hands and knees? He  _ will _ , he’d do anything to stop this awful silence, but he doesn’t know what Akira  _ wants. _

Chocolates aren’t something Akira is interested in, but he does stop by the flower shop at the underground mall to buy a dozen roses in red and white, figuring something is better than nothing. Boss only raises his eyebrows at him when he comes in with the bouquet, sheepish and fidgeting, before shaking his head and pointing up the stairs. “Don’t be loud,” he says shortly. Ryuji nods in acknowledgement and books it up the stairs.

But...Akira’s not there.

Neither is Morgana; his travel bag sits on the table next to the stairway open but empty, and the window is cracked the slightest bit as well. He must have gone to visit Futaba or something. Ryuji occupies himself in the meantime looking for something to put the flowers in. There has to be a vase or something…

He’s on his hands and knees rummaging around in a supply box when he hears footsteps; they startle him so much that he jumps and bangs his head on the underside of the shelf, and when Akira rounds the corner with his hair still damp from the baths Ryuji is swearing and rubbing his temple, the flowers an arms length away on the ground.

No one says anything for a moment. Akira eyes him with the stillness of a cornered prey animal, a far cry from his usual poised demeanor, even though he has the full length of the stairs to flee down if he needs to. Ryuji is the cornered one, on his hands and knees in the corner of the room. Finally Akira sets down what he’s carrying— a bag, it looks like, probably clean laundry— and steps further into the attic. “What are you doing here,” he says more than asks, warily.

“I, uh…..here.” Ryuji grabs for the bouquet and brandishes it like a shield. “I brought you these?”

Akira doesn’t step any closer, but he doesn’t leave, either. “Why?”

“Cause...I wanted to apologize?”

“For  _ what? _ ” There’s a pinched look on Akira’s face now, like he’s got a headache brewing right between his temples. Ryuji’s losing ground, and it makes something uneasy start bubbling in his gut.

“Eff if I know, man, all I know is that you’re— you’re mad, and I don’t know why, so I thought—” He gestures with the bouquet again, the flower heads bobbing sadly on the ends of their stalks. The pinched look in Akira’s eyes grow more haunted.

“You don’t even know? It didn’t even—” Akira stops himself there. Ryuji watches his hands flex, curling into almost fists before relaxing again, and he feels almost on even territory again. He knows how this goes, at least; Akira will sock him one, then they’ll hug, then things’ll be okay again.

Only...he doesn’t. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking quick little circles on the floor. If he was a cat, all his hackles would be raised, Ryuji’s sure of that. “I can’t believe— did it register  _ that little  _ to you? Was throwing your life away not even a blip on your radar?”

Ryuji blinks. “Huh?”

“ _Huh?!”_ Akira whirls on his heel at that. There’s a wildness, a raw and vicious hurt in his eyes that Ryuji doesn’t understand the source of but would do _anything_ to erase. He drops the bouquet and stands up, hands open and empty, trying to project as unthreatening an air as possible. Akira stalks two feet closer, and now Ryuji can see that he’s trembling again, just like he was a few nights ago. “Ryuji, you— you basically— do you know how much that looked like a — a _suicide attempt?!_ I thought you— I— I thought I’d never—”

He’s gone from horrified to furious and back in the space of a few heartbeats, his breathing picking up until he’s all but panting with distress. His eyes are wide and hard, his face tight, and Ryuji feels like he understand more and less with every passing second.

“I— this is about the lifeboat?” he asks dumbly, taking a step closer. “Akira?”

“I thought you  _ died!” _ It’s less than a shout but louder than a normal speaking voice should be. He should feel worried about that, but Ryuji’s more concerned with the way Akira’s hands shake like a leaf in the wind. He wants to take them between his own and hold them steady, wants to reel Akira in and wrap his arms around him tight, but when he reaches out again Akira jerks back. “I thought you  _ died _ ,” he says again, raw and open.

Oh.

Oh  _ shit. _ Is he—

“Are you crying?” Ryuji asks a little dumbly. Akira bares his teeth in what could be a snarl, if it wasn’t for the way he immediately scrubs at his eyes after. “Shit. Akira— I’m so—”

“I can’t,” Akira chokes out, his head and shoulders bowed now, trying to hide his face as much as he’s trying to keep the tears in. “Do you know— how  _ awful _ it felt, thinking you’d—”

“You did the same thing!” Ryuji points out. Akira immediately shakes his head, fiercely enough that Ryuji takes a step back. 

“It  _ wasn’t! _ We had a plan for me, we had backups, we had a way out!  _ You _ didn’t! You could have  _ died _ ! I could have lost you  _ forever! _ You can’t— you can’t fucking  _ do _ that, Ryuji, you can’t just fucking  _ leave _ me to do this on my own now, b-bastard, you  _ can’t _ —”

Highest on the list of things Ryuji never wanted to see: Kurusu Akira sobbing into his own sleeve like his heart is breaking. He thinks he gets it now, and it replaces the bubbling feeling in his gut with something cold and sour. “Babe,” he says, his voice catching a bit. “Akira.”

“D-don’t ‘babe’ me—”

“ _ Akira, _ ” he says again, insistently, softly.

“Y-you— I can’t, you’re m-my best friend, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you never— you never once— and I— I thought I watched you—”

There’s only so much he can take. He rushes forward, closes the few feet between them and drags Akira into his arms, feeling him shudder, feeling him bury his face into the crook of his neck. “Shit, man,” he says low and soft, bundling him closer, wanting to wrap his hoodie around them both and zip them together. “Akira. Babe. I’m  _ sorry. _ I didn’t— someone had to, y’know?” When Akira doesn’t answer, he shakes him, just a little bit. “Akira. If I hadn’t…”

“I know,” Akira says wetly, and his arms finally creep around Ryuij, holding him tight enough to crush. That’s okay. Ryuji squeezes back just as tight. “I  _ know, _ but— you didn’t even— you just  _ left. _ ” 

_ You left me, _ he doesn’t say, but both of them hear it.

“I’m right here,” he says instead, quietly, insistently, pressing kisses onto the damp sweep of Akira’s hair wherever he can reach. “I’m right here.”

He doesn’t know how long they stand there, how long Akira sobs quietly into his shoulder, tears and snot making him feel absolutely disgusting— but he wouldn’t move for the world. Not while he has Akira. He can’t help but make a face, though, when he pulls away and they’re connected by a bit of goo. “Sorry,” Akira says hoarsely through a wet sniff, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“I’ve had worse, man,” Ryuji says as he shrugs off his hoodie with as little movement as possible. His shoulder is cold and gross with slime, but by the time he’s pulled it off Akira’s holding out a towel to him, his free hand full of tissues. They clean themselves up; Ryuji wipes his shoulder down, shivering a bit in the chilly attic air, and Akira goes through tissues until his nose is clear and his face is mostly dry.

He’s willing to just put his hoodie on and deal with the chafing, but Akira hands him one of his own shirts silently. It’s well worn— it looks like one of the ones he sleeps in, one with a soft knit and a comforting texture. He takes it, rolls up the sleeves and tosses his hoodie onto the couch. “Are we, uh…” he says, pausing awkwardly. “Are we okay? Are we done fighting? ‘Kira, I  _ really _ wanna be done fighting…”

“I’m sorry,” Akira says again, sounding exhausted and groggy. “I’m done. Please don’t do that again. I couldn’t— I can’t. Not again. I don’t wanna watch you— Not when I’m not there, not when I can’t be there with a Soma or—”

Without hesitation he bundles Akira back up into his arms, waddle-walking them both back towards the bed until Akira’s knees hit the mattress and he folds, pulling Ryuji down with him. “I’m not,” he says, a vow like a promise as he cards the hair away from Akira’s forehead, pushing his glasses up to kiss the corners of his eyes, the tip of his nose. “Akira. Not without you.”

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers low and broken, his eyes squeezing shut. “Don’t you dare  _ ever _ die on me, Ryuji.”

“Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> :3c this week is such a fun writing exercise, swinging from sin to angst to fluff and back again, i love it
> 
> this also makes an unintentional trilogy with fic by music and voido!


End file.
